Hate
by dna2000
Summary: M/M set in the 1920s! My first non-modern fic. Canon up until about 2x07/2x08. Mary feels a unique kind of hatred and her efforts to vent her emotions revisit her the following year.


_A/N: hot on the heels of my UR update comes a bit of a shock – a NON-MODERN DAY M'M FIC. I know, it took me by surprise too. But I got the idea for this randomly one night (it started with the poem) and I gradually expanded it into this one-shot. I'd be interested to hear what people thought because it is a bit out of my comfort zone, even thought I absolutely love reading other canon fics on here. Hope you enjoy!_

…

"…_Pictured above, the Earl of Grantham and his future wife visited the pioneering new cancer ward at Downton Hospital, Yorkshire. Recently unveiled by His Lordship, its patients and their families have been thoroughly impressed by the high standards of comfort and care offered by the staff. Perhaps it should be no surprise that the ward exudes warmth, given that it was founded by the Earl of Grantham in honour of his predecessor, a beloved surrogate father to the young Earl, who sadly succumbed to the illness in October of last year. Such is the strength of heart of the new Earl, his sensible and philanthropic endeavours have won him favour and popularity throughout the county, from the baker to the Dowager Countess herself. And his bride-to-be is sure to be equally welcomed by the local residents; pretty and modest, Miss Lavinia Swire is frequently sighted with His Lordship on his regular visits to former servicemen and local schools, appearances that are said to inspire cheer among those who eagerly await the bright couple's wedding, which is rumoured to take place in-"_

Flinging the broadsheet onto the nearest table with a loud ruffle of its papers, Mary let out a deep sigh. She thought she had mitigated the risk of reading about _him_ by choosing a national newspaper, having purposefully stopped reading local publications. But he seemed to have a knack of creeping into the most unexpected of places – a newspaper article about something seemingly unrelated, during a conversation at dinner. Fed up, she would turn on the radio, only to hear one of the songs that they had once danced to – a reminder that he had once held her in his arms…

It was as if he was seeking out her attention in an effort to tear at her heart, and just when she thought there wasn't anything left to tear, he would find a novel way to interrupt her day and shred one of the remnants.

Every now and then, Mary spent an evening freeing the emotions that she'd spent the days or weeks prior bottling up. It had become something of a routine. Living in London, she needed to maintain her 'society face' more than ever, so it was imperative to empty herself of as much of the hurt and anguish as she could, at regular intervals throughout the month.

So now Mary looked forlornly at her lap, willing the tears to come. As much as she detested crying and had been raised to consider it as a weakness, she always felt better afterwards. The tears were stubborn and unforthcoming, though, irritated at having been called upon so often in recent weeks, so she assessed her other options. Glancing around the bedroom, she spotted a fountain pen and some paper – a neglected, unfinished letter to Sybil - on her writing desk. With another sigh, she rose from her bed. She had never been the most creative or eloquent of writers. But it would have to do.

…

_I hate you._

_I hate that you can make my stomach flutter, and my heart skip a beat,  
When you're miles away and don't know that you do.  
I hate that you can be happy without me,  
Even though happiness is all I wish for you._

_I hate that you don't know where I am, or what I'm doing,  
But I hear of you everywhere I go.  
I hate that you call her 'my darling',  
And that you will never address me so. _

_I hate your honour, your intelligence,  
Your looks so handsome, so refined.  
I hate all your imperfect perfection,  
Of which I shall forever be denied._

_I hate that you barely think of me,  
And will do so less with the passage of time.  
But most of all, what I hate so much,  
Is that I can't ever call you mine._

_It is a fine line, they say,  
Between adoration and what I write of.  
So I come to realise, with great pain,  
That my hatred is borne from love._

…

"Mary?"

"Hmm?"

"What is this?"

Mary lazily looked up from the letter she was composing. Matthew was holding a scrap of paper in his hands and gazing at it with great curiosity. Peering over to get a closer look, she realised what it was.

With a small gasp, she stood up and strode over to snatch the paper away from his hands. But he had pre-empted her, holding the paper out of her reach. It was too late, anyway - from his countenance it was obvious that he had already read it. He looked at her expectantly.

"Where did you find it?" She asked, trying to temper the violent blush that now coloured her cheeks. She couldn't recall the exact words that she'd used but her memory made clear that it had been a rather revealing, and rather terribly-composed, poem.

"I'm asking the questions." Matthew replied firmly. He continued to stare at her, silently asking her to speak. She merely averted her gaze. "Is it about me?" He prompted.

Mary had to suppress an eye-roll; what an idiotic question! "No, it isn't. I wrote it about the Duke of Norfolk - I've been desperately in love with him for many years but I had to settle for you. I thought I must have mentioned it?" She teased.

"Stop it, Mary. Answer me." Matthew said sternly, although his lips quirked up in fond amusement.

Just when Mary could think of no other way to avoid answering him directly (she still felt uncomfortable with open declarations of her feelings, past or present, and the reappearance of her poem was making her feel embarrassed enough without discussing its meaning), Molesley entered the room with their tea tray.

"Oh, thank you-" Mary began to gush in exaggerated gratitude.

"Not now, Molesley." Matthew interrupted sharply, indicating with a flick of his hand that Molesley should exit and take the tray with him.

Molesley, bemused by the uncharacteristic and contrasting reactions of his master and mistress, backed out of the study with a puzzled frown on his face.

"Matthew!" Mary turned to him, aghast. "That was very rude! You know he's just doing his job. Apologise to Molesley at once." She ordered, her hands on her hips.

It was Matthew's turn to suppress an eye-roll - Mary knew full well that she had lost her temper with poor Molesley in far worse ways than he had. "I _will_ apologise - I will grovel at his feet, for heaven's sake - if you just tell me what this is about!" Matthew cried with exasperation, vigorously brandishing the small piece of paper in front of her. He would usually indulge in her little games, but this discovery seemed too important to ignore.

Mary sighed with resignation. "Fine." She relented, and Matthew's eyes widened with anticipation. "I wrote it just over a year ago - last February, it was - before you visited London. It was soon after you'd become Earl and all I could hear about in the papers and at dinners was how wonderful you were and all the splendid things you were doing for the county...and how lovely Lavinia would be as your wife, because everyone was taking such a shine to her. Gradually, I realised how strong my love for you was, that I couldn't seem to think about anything else no matter how hard I tried. Everything that I saw or heard or did only served to divert my thoughts to ones of you. I felt like I was in some sort of invisible trap and nobody could help me out of it. It just...all got too much one night, I suppose, and I had to vent my feelings somehow. So I wrote them down." She shrugged gracefully, signifying the conclusion of her account.

Matthew simply gazed at her, dumb-founded and awe-struck. "So you loved me, all that time?" He asked in amazement. "Even when your father died and I became Earl? You loved me then?"

"Why do you think I ran off to London?" Was Mary's simple reply. "It was too difficult to stay near Downton when I knew that all of it would remind me of you. It would be like living in a gallery when you're secretly in love with the artist. There seemed no point in me staying if it would only heighten my misery. At least London offered more distractions. It was only once I packed up all my belongings and finally arrived in London that I realised its distractions would not be of much help to me, which was rather annoying." She smiled in an attempt to lighten the mood. Matthew was looking so very serious.

"You could have stayed." Matthew said wistfully. "Didn't you worry that you'd be cutting off any hope of our reconciliation by moving so far away?"

"You were still with Lavinia, Matthew - I knew you wouldn't propose to me again."

"You mean you _thought_ that I wouldn't propose to you again." Matthew corrected her softly, with a wry smile.

"Well, yes, I suppose I was wrong about that." Mary smiled back. "But you can't blame me for not expecting anything to happen between us."

"No, I didn't foresee anything either." Matthew admitted. "God, we were fools, weren't we?" He said, reflecting on the months and years of silent longing and torment that had passed so needlessly.

"You've only just realised?" Mary said drolly.

"Well, I've been under the impression that you had stopped loving me during the war and only fell in love with me again after we reunited in London." Matthew countered. "If I'd known that you'd loved me all along then I might have done something about it sooner!" He said resolutely.

"Hmm, I'm sure you would have, darling." Mary said appeasingly, hiding her smirk. Despite his present confidence, Matthew would have never left Lavinia high and dry in order to marry another woman, especially with the war on. He wouldn't have wanted his life at home to be as tumultuous and to cause as much pain (albeit of a different kind) as his life on the front. "Now give me that paper," she said, approaching Matthew with an outstretched hand, "I have some old drafts of letters to throw out so I can put this with them."

"You want to throw it out?" Matthew asked, alarmed by the prospect.

"Of course, why would I want to keep it?" Mary asked. "I thought I'd discarded it long ago. I don't even know how it managed to crop up here."

"It seems you'd used it as a bookmark of some sort – I found it, folded up, in your book on flappers' fashion." Matthew replied.

"And why exactly were you looking at that book?" Mary asked with a quirked eyebrow.

"Mary, stop trying to change the conversation!" Matthew retorted irritably, although he was blushing slightly at his confession. "The point is – _you _may not want to keep this poem, but _I _do."

"Why?" Mary asked, wondering why they would want in their happy home a reminder of their painful time apart and the sorrow that it had brought them.

"Because it means a lot to me, to know that you felt this way." Matthew replied quietly, but the words felt inadequate to express truly how much those few verses touched his heart.

"But it's so silly and-" Mary began to protest, still embarrassed by the record of her private moments of sadness.

"It's not silly at all." Matthew cut her off firmly. "Everything that we've experienced – good _and_ bad – has brought us to where we are today. It has made our marriage what it is, and we should not forget or dismiss any of it, no matter how difficult those times may have been."

Mary looked at him fondly. He was so wise, yet maintained his sentimental nature. "Alright, but you must promise never to show that to anyone." She said with faux sternness, already knowing that it was too dear to his heart for him to share it with anybody.

"I promise." Matthew nodded with faux solemnity. He approached her and gently wrapped his arms around her small petite waist. "How did you know that I called her 'my darling'?" He asked, referring back to the poem.

"Edith kindly mentioned it to me when she wrote of her luncheons with you both." Mary said sarcastically.

"I'm sorry." Matthew kissed her cheek with belated sympathy. "That must have been difficult to hear – I know I would have hated to hear of you calling another man that."

"It's alright." Mary smiled and rubbed his arms reassuringly. "Besides, I think I prefer what you call me."

Matthew grinned back at her and, before leaning in for a kiss, said, "And so you should – _my love._"

…

_A/N: i know the poem was not very good AT ALL, but it wasn't really meant to be (I decided to make Mary not very good at writing :P). I found this a little tricky as it is a new time period for me, but one which I've been wanting to try, so please let me know what you think! Thanks for reading xxx_


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